And, of course, I speak too soon. Hope's a bitch. And a fickle one, at that. I vacillate between thinking things will work out to thinking this is all a pipedream and I'm really just deluding myself to avoid thinking of my present state of failure. I place a lot of stock in May, but I know this wound, this cataclysmic year will leave an ugly, ugly mark. God, how I've failed. How I've failed day after day. I disappoint them and they disappoint me and I disappoint myself. I want to help, not lead. I never wanted to lead. I have never, ever wanted to lead. So why the hell did I think I could do this? What possessed me to think that this was something I could handle?
Hope's a fickle bitch. That was one of the best parts about dating Laura: I always had something to look forward to. There was a sense of anticipation that she might call, there was getting to see her at least on the weekend, there were the chance meetings online, the sprinkling throughout my life that kept me excited about something all the time.
And now? Now nothing penetrates my shell. I feel unloved. I feel unsuccessful. I feel wretched and useless. In my coping, in my protection I am devouring myself. And when I am not confident in good things to come...
Ah well. Eight weeks. And then we move on to a newer, better hell.
Hope's a fickle bitch. That was one of the best parts about dating Laura: I always had something to look forward to. There was a sense of anticipation that she might call, there was getting to see her at least on the weekend, there were the chance meetings online, the sprinkling throughout my life that kept me excited about something all the time.
And now? Now nothing penetrates my shell. I feel unloved. I feel unsuccessful. I feel wretched and useless. In my coping, in my protection I am devouring myself. And when I am not confident in good things to come...
Ah well. Eight weeks. And then we move on to a newer, better hell.
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